Of Fishing and Legends

My friend Don sent a text message the other day that brought back a nice memory. It was a beautiful evening, calm, warm, and partly cloudy – a perfect night for fishing. Don, his grandson, Bryce, and I were chasing walleyes on Vermilion. It should have been just another night on the water but little did I know the evening would propel me to legendary status. Yeah, I was surprised too. But that’s just another wonderful aspect of fishing – you never know what you’re going to get.

Don “Donny” Aune and I have been fishing together for decades. We’ve fished from shore, in a boat, off a dock, on the ice, and almost under the ice one time when my truck tire broke through. In earlier years, we’d travel a good distance to a lake, fish till dark, clean fish, drive home, roll into bed near midnight, then roll out of bed a precious few hours later to go to work. It seems a lot of fuss for a fish supper, but fishing does that to a person.

Indeed, the love of fishing draws one away from mundane tasks, soft places, and self-imposed commitments. It challenges you to challenge yourself. Early mornings, boating across white-capped bays, navigating rapids, toughing out weather more extreme than you’re dressed for, and trying to out think a fish all combine for a sense of accomplishment. It may not equal the challenge and reward of military service, but if nothing else, it’s part of “taking the road less traveled.”

At times, catching fish takes second place to the show nature presents on all its stages. A doe and fawn ghost from the forest nearby to drink. Mink skitter along the rocks. Gigantic muskies surface near the boat. On occasion, a bear or deer can be caught swimming hurriedly from shore to shore. Eagles gaze from lofty pines. Flocks of geese pass overhead. Rafts of ducklings hug close to mom, and loons sing and flap about. It’s nature at its natural best. All this said, I must be clear that catching fish is the goal – not catching a glimpse of an otter.

It’s fair to say that Don and I usually catch supper by the end of the day, but the rest of the day can be a bit much. For example, we’ll ease up to a rocky spot that had been producing fish a few days prior. After a few casts and maybe five minutes, if no fish are caught, one can count on Don’s signature line, “Whose idea was it to bring us to this crap hole?” (I’m the one driving the boat, so the answer is obvious but he says it anyway because he’s Donny). After two or three more “crap holes” with no fish to show for our effort, I would prefer he drive the boat, and I provide color commentary. Still, it works out by changing the topic to events of the day and fishing adventures from years past when we scored big which, by the way, brings us back to the start of the story.

Our trio had caught a few fish on that beautiful night, well, actually, Don and Bryce caught the fish – not me, but nothing the likes to get excited over. With daylight waning, I offered we try one last crap hole. With anchors away and leeches on, I proclaimed, “When someone catches a five-pounder, we’re done for the night.” A few minutes later, Don hooked into a serious fish, and the adrenaline rush we had been looking for was at hand. The fight was on!

Don’s cheap fiberglass rod was nearly bent in half under the weight as he attempted to budge it off the bottom, his weak wrists only making matters worse. Adjusting the drag on his trusty Zebco-33 reel, he eventually coaxed the fish close to the boat before it dove to the depths to begin the tiresome process over again. The chances of a successful landing weren’t looking good, however with some coaching from Bryce and myself, Don eventually got the fish close enough for Bryce to net it. You may have already guessed – a beautiful five-pound walleye!

After some high-fives, hand-shakes, and a picture or two, the fish went back into the lake. Beyond the thrill of watching someone boat a big one, the moment provided me with something that will last a lifetime—a new nickname that Don came up with: “Leo the legend,” (his words not mine).

It’s not comfortable being a legend, at least when the moniker is bestowed on you by a friend but it was quite flattering considering he doesn’t flatter much. Actually, I’m more comfortable with his cutting remarks on my fishing spots — aah, crap holes. I’m used to that, but I find ways to seek revenge from time to time. Still, a legend is a legend and if you don’t believe it, ask Donny. Just give yourself a fair amount of time for his answer.

But becoming a legend and staying a legend are two very different things. A friend, Julie, came up to me the other day and in perfectly innocent sincerity, asked, “I saw a picture on Facebook of some fish you caught. Were those smelt?” (Smelt are 6-7” fish notably netted in spring on Lake Superior tributaries.) “WHAT?” I shot back. “Those were walleyes!” I was mortified by her lack of perspective. How can one confuse sixteen inch….well, maybe fourteen inch, walleyes with smelt? All I know for sure is that I better up my game if I’m to remain a legend.